


Peftastéri

by Phiso



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Magic, Trench Warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso
Summary: Remus Lupin joins the Caelian Army as a soldier, hoping that, if nothing else, he'll die with a full stomach. One night, he accidentally saves a falling star known to humans as Sirius. Bound by magical contract, Sirius vows to stay by Remus's side until he can return the favor, which quickly becomes a pain for both of them. At first.





	1. In Which Remus Takes A Train, Eats Dinner, And Lays In A Bed

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my 2015 RS Games submission (posted on DW as phiso_kun). If you've read that, you know where this is going, but there is going to be a lot more going on than before. This should not only flesh out this world, but introduce you to more characters and (maybe) teach you more about WWI. Some of the characters are based off of people we've never met, such as the Prewett brothers; people we've never heard of but must have existed, such as the Patil twins' extended family; and others I'll get from sources like Chocolate Frog cards. I'm pretty sure everyone I'll use is somehow connected to the Harry Potter in some way, shape, or form, so have fun figuring out where I got them from!
> 
> The world and the war in this story is based off of Western Europe during WWI, but the countries used and their histories are fictional. This story borrows from many others aside from Harry Potter: _Howl's Moving Castle_ by Diana Wynne Jones; _The Little Prince_ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry; _The Little Princess_ as directed by Alfonso Cuarón; and, of course, _Stardust_ by Neil Gaiman.

 

 

"A philosopher once asked, 'Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human?' Pointless, really...'Do the stars gaze back?' Now, that's a question." - from the movie  _Stardust_

 

 

 

\---

 

For four-year-old Remus, there was no better place in the world than his father's workshop. It was a wizard's space, and every time he went in, he made a beeline for the empty stool beside the worktable, eager to see what his father was working on. It was a spacious room with multiple work tables, each covered with mysterious instruments and drawings. Remus loved the way the white summer afternoon light streamed in through the large windows, hitting the metal instruments and glass containers on the shelves and causing splashes of color to appear sporadically around the room. The blackwood shelves lining the walls made the room seem smaller and darker than it really was, but Remus felt this just made the workshop cozy and safe.

Remus got a good grip on the tall stool by his father's work table and tried to scramble up. His light brown hair fell over his face as he climbed and he tried to blow it away, but the stool seat digging into his stomach kept him from getting enough air.  His feet had just gotten some purchase on the second rung when his father chuckled and lifted him up, placing him squarely on the seat.

"Careful now, Remus, you don't want to fall," Remus's father cautioned as he returned to fiddling with a strange metal contraption that was lying open on the table. It looked like a bronze globe with a wide, open mouth. "It’s a long way from up there."

"I won't," Remus assured him, delicately brushing invisible dust off his lap. There was a bright orange splash of light on his thigh, and he traced it out with a finger, contemplating the question that had driven him to the workshop in the first place. "Father, how did you become a wizard?"

"Well," said his father, picking up some pliers, "it was at once both very simple and very difficult."

"It was both? How?"

"Well," his father grunted, trying to pull something out of the machine, "it was very simple, because once I knew I wanted to become a wizard, I started becoming one."

"Oh." Remus pondered this, his amber eyes following a series of green spots dancing on his father's arm as he worked. "What was difficult about it?"

"Actually becoming a wizard." With a sudden jerk, Remus's father pulled out a severely bent gear, and he sighed in relief. "But first, you have to be sure you want to be a wizard in order to become one."

“Why?”

“Because it’s hard work. There’s books to read, essays to write, research questions to investigate - it takes seven years to become a wizard, and if you’re not sure about it, you’re not going to make it.” A fond smile crossed his father’s face. “But if you know you want to be a wizard, it’ll be seven of the best years of your life.”

"Well, I want to be a wizard, too!" Remus declared, sitting up straighter. The movement caused a splash of blue to settle between his eyebrows. "As good a wizard as you!"

His father laughed, setting the gear aside and ruffling Remus's hair. "And so you shall be."

 

\---

 

As the train left Aurumuros, the capital city in central Caelia, twenty-three year old Remus wondered what had happened to all of the more luxurious trains.

The last time Remus had ridden a train he had been nine, back when his parents were still alive. They had ridden in fairly nice carriages when he was a boy, with drapes on the windows, carpet on the floor, and tables between the seats for writing letters or playing cards. He had liked trains and was always looking for excuses to travel on them, eager for the chance to explore the big, wide world outside of Aurumuros. They had never gone especially far – the furthest he’d ever been was a coastal city in the south, eight hours away by train – but his father had promised him new countries when he was older, lands filled with foreign tongues, strange foods, and new magic. Remus had spent hours looking over maps, tracing Caelia’s hexagonal shape with his finger as he considered their first excursion abroad, and had finally settled on visiting Terram, the massive country that met with Caelia's northern and eastern borders. Terram’s capital was going to be their first stop, but his father hadn’t lived long enough for that trip.

This train wasn’t nearly as nice as the old trains. There were no drapes, no carpet, and no tables, and at the end of the ride, there would be no museums or leisurely strolls. He was going to the Nebel army training base, six hours northwest of Aurumuros and thirty minutes from a village with the same name. He’d be lucky if he was allowed to mingle with civilians at any point, let alone enjoy something akin to a day trip.

It was a boring train ride; Remus spent most of it staring out the window and ignoring the stocky blond snoring beside him. It didn’t take long for the scenery to change, and soon the hills and mountains of central Caelia gave way to the thick forests of the north, with splashes of orange, yellow, and red autumn leaves occasionally peeking through the dark green. His mind wandered easily, dark thoughts looming over him like the heavy blanket of clouds resting over the trees.

After weeks of deliberation, he had made the decision to join the army. It wasn’t as though he could have forgotten about the option; Aurumuros’s streets had been filled with propaganda ever since the start of the war a year ago, with posters and flyers on every corner. Some joked that Aurumuros was going to lose its nickname, “The Golden City”, as so much paper had accumulated on the walls that it was getting difficult to see the hallmark yellow limestone used to construct its buildings.  As home to Caelia’s government and the heart of the country’s financial sector, Aurumuros was no stranger to visitors, but the merchants and politicians it had once hosted were now more often than not replaced by soldiers and recruits from the various military branches. If you were in the military, you would be guaranteed to pass through Aurumuros, and if you lived there, you were sure to be approached by a recruitment officer at least once.

Remus had been recruited three times. The first time, which occurred two weeks after the war had started, Remus had laughed in the recruitment officer’s face. Join the army? What for? He had no qualms with Terram - in fact, he told the officer, he hoped Terram won. This, of course, was a bare-faced lie. Remus didn’t really care who won the war; he just wanted to see the man’s sense of patriotism nearly bubble over in fury, and he was not disappointed. The officer spluttered a bunch of nonsense about duty, loyalty, and love of the motherland before pulling out some handcuffs, calling him a traitor. Remus ran, laughing, and got away easily; no recruitment officer knew the city as well as Remus did, and it didn’t take long for Remus to shake him off his tail.

The second time, which happened eight months later, wasn’t nearly as amusing. Remus had been sleeping in an alleyway when a sudden storm woke him. Unwilling to sleep in a wet pile of newspapers, he had ducked into the first covered doorway he could find and sat on the steps, shivering as the brisk May breezes had sucked away what little warmth he had left. The plan had been to leave the doorway at dawn before anyone arrived so as to not frighten whoever worked there, but instead he had ended up dozing off.

“Excuse me, you’re blocking the door.”

Remus had jumped awake, startled by a short young woman standing before him holding an umbrella. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a bun, and her light brown eyes studied him curiously. She looked to be around his age.

“Sorry! I’m going, I’m leaving right now.” He had gathered his things in a hurry, concerned by the military uniform she was wearing. He had been afraid she was going to report him to the police, but instead she had offered to let him inside.

“You can join the Army, too, if you like,” she had said with a little smile as she opened the door. “Or the Navy. But if you just want to wash up and have a cup of coffee, that’s fine, too. It doesn’t look like the rain is going to let up anytime soon.”

“I’d rather not get your office dirty, thank you,” Remus had mumbled, throwing his rucksack over his shoulder.

“Well, if you change your mind,” she told him, stepping inside and closing her umbrella, “the door’s open. Ask for Specialist Mary Macdonald.” Mary turned and flashed him a smile. “The offer stands for either the coffee or the army, just so you know.”

“Right, thanks.” Remus had left before she could say anything more, worried her kindness might convince him to join the army after all.

The third time -

A splatter of raindrops hit the window, startling Remus out of his reverie. A clap of thunder jerked the blond beside Remus awake.

“We there yet?” the blond asked, blearily looking about.

“No. We’ve got a few more hours left, I think.” Remus glanced at him before turning back to the window, clearly not in the mood for conversation. The blond settled back to sleep, and soon snores were mingling with the sound of rain and the chugging train.

The rain picked up as the journey continued, and by the time the train arrived at Nebel it was positively storming. Remus could barely make out the long buildings through the sheets of rain. As he and his fellow new recruits disembarked and ran indoors, shielding themselves with their coats and bags, a roll of thunder rumbled so loudly he could feel it in his chest, sounding eerily like bombs going off in the distance.

Remus would’ve felt ill-at-ease by the ominous arrival if he had been given any time to register the emotion; in that way, at least, the army’s need for efficiency served him. He and the other new recruits were shuttled to the medical building to verify their identities, which was followed by a physical. The identification process went quickly when everything was in order, but there was one big hang-up some four recruits ahead of Remus.

“What d’you mean we’re in the northwest?” cried out a skinny redhead covered in freckles. He looked barely old enough to be there. “I told them I wanted to go east!”

“You must have boarded the wrong train,” said the woman in charge of approving documentation. Her warm brown skin and dark hair made the redhead look even paler in comparison, and she looked very annoyed. “But you’re here now, so here’s where you’ll stay.”

“B-but - “ The redhead’s ears turned bright red, and somehow his rural Western accent got even thicker. “But my brother’s at Firdaus, I was supposed to - ”

“You can apply for a transfer after your third full rotation in the trenches,” the woman explained, stamping the young man’s forms. “In the meantime, here are your papers. Please follow the signs to the examination room.”

“But-”

“That’s all I can tell you, so move it along, Private Prewett, you’re holding the line up.”

As the redhead called Prewett slunk away, crushed, the next person in line asked the woman, “Can you really transfer after three rotations?”

“You can apply,” she answered, “but the likelihood of that application being approved is about as likely as me sprouting wings. Papers?”

After his papers were deemed to be in order, Remus was sent to the medical examination room, where he was made to strip down before being pricked and poked like a prize pig. The physical didn’t last long, and once he had been assigned his living quarters and rifle and filled his new, temporary trunk with his belongings, he headed over to the mess in a new uniform. By this time, the rain had stopped, and it became evident that the Nebel training camp was made up almost entirely of long, one-story wooden buildings, distinguishable from one another only by their signs. The quiet camp was surrounded by flat forest and was not only very poorly lit but filled with a dense fog that unsettled Remus. He was raised in Aurumuros, a city built in a valley where there were always lights; there, you could always see who was around you, even if it was only by their shadow. Here, with clouds blocking the stars and moon and so few lamps, he felt strangely vulnerable. He kept his pace brisk, glancing over his shoulder more than once.

Dinner that night was a warm chowder that needed salt but was otherwise the best thing Remus had eaten in months. He didn’t speak much to the others at his table as they ate, preferring to savor every bite of his meal. If he appeared antisocial, that was fine with him. He had learned to avoid growing too close to anyone, and now that he was going to war, he was especially cautious about it. Still, despite his best efforts to show he wasn’t interested – including sitting at the very edge of his table – the three young men sitting around him were particularly chatty and were constantly trying to pull him into the conversation. Remus recognized one of them as the Prewett bloke who had boarded the wrong train, but had never seen the other two.

"My dad was in the army when he was my age," said Prewett proudly. Apparently he was over his mistake. "My brother’s in it now, fighting on the eastern front, near Firdaus."

"Firdaus?" A man with dark hair, tan skin, and sky blue eyes sitting across from Prewett whistled. He had impressive arms and a broad chest; Remus guessed he was in his late-twenties, and had spent a lot of time doing physical work. "You sure he’s still alive?"

"‘Course he is," Prewett scoffed, brandishing his spoon so violently his elbow nearly hit Remus next to him. "Got word just this morning before we left, said they were gaining on those damn Terramians."

"You reckon there’s going to be much fighting up here, like in the east?" wondered the third, who Remus guessed was in his early twenties, like him. Seated beside the dark-haired man and across from Remus, he had light brown hair and a pale, innocent face; Remus was surprised he’d volunteered for the army at all. He looked more like a scholar than anything else.

"Why d’you ask, Longbottom, eager for some bloodshed?" the dark-haired man asked with a grim smile.

"Not really, Dearborn. I’m just here because my grandmother was about ready to ship me off herself if I didn’t get going," Longbottom answered. "She’s very patriotic, but she’s also sick; she can’t really leave home," he added sadly. "She’s not far from Firdaus, and if there’s a decisive victory to be won up here, I’d rather we stop the war before it gets to her.”

An image of his father’s old map appeared in Remus’s mind. He remembered Firdaus as being in easternmost Caelia near the base of a mountain range that separated the region from the rest of the country. There were nothing but fields between Firdaus and the Terramian border.

Dearborn clapped Longbottom’s shoulder. "She’ll be all right, you’ll see. And even if you can’t help her, I’m sure we can count on Prewett’s brother to help her out."

"Damn straight," said Prewett heartily. “And me, once I transfer out of here.”

Unlikely, thought Remus.

"I just don’t want to get shot," said Dearborn. "Or blown up. Can’t really climb the ranks if I’m dead, now, can I?"

"Ah, a career man, are we?" Longbottom said wryly.

Dearborn shrugged and leaned forward onto his elbows, frowning into his chowder. "Every other job I ever had back home involved cleaning fish, and let me tell you, if I ever have to clean another fish again, I’ll scream. This chowder's about all I can take."

And then, to Remus's great displeasure, Dearborn pinned that shocking blue gaze on him. "And what are you here for?" he asked. It occurred to Remus that Dearborn had a coastal accent from the south, something very rough and gritty and very different from the crisp capital accent Remus had. Those from the coast and the capital didn’t often get along due to political reasons; he hoped Dearborn wasn’t one of the people who put stock in that sort of thing, as he looked to be the kind of man you’d never want as an enemy.

Remus shrugged noncommittally, focusing on his food. Maybe if he didn’t speak, they’d leave him alone.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Prewett grinned. "Or just scared stiff?"

Longbottom leaned forward, brow furrowing as he studied Remus. "No, I don’t think he’s scared. Not of us, anyway."

"You three aren’t my biggest concern right now," Remus finally said, knowing as he said it that it would beg a follow-up question he didn’t want.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" scowled Prewett.

"I’m just focused on not dying.” Remus trained his eyes on the remnants of his soup. “Chances are, one or two of us might make it out alive, maybe. The rest of us are dead," he said, his voice louder than he intended. "So what’s the point in making friends?"

There was a deep silence following these words; the whole mess had heard him. Remus’s face burned.

"Blimey, barrel of laughs, aren’t you?" Dearborn muttered. "Why’re you here, then, City Boy, if you’re so convinced you’re just going to die alone?"

Remus forced himself to swallow his last mouthful of soup before answering. "Because if I’m going to die alone anyway, it’d be nice to die with a full stomach. That wasn’t going to happen back home."

"Yeah, well," Dearborn said darkly, turning back to his meal, "better hope the rations keep up, then."

Dinner ended soon after and without further incident. Most of the men used the little free time they had before lights out to write quick letters home, assuring their loved ones they had arrived safely, but Remus didn’t have anyone to write to, so he simply got ready for bed. Before he went to sleep, however, he pulled a notebook made of worn, deep mahogany leather out of his trunk.

Remus hadn’t brought anything to write with, but that served him just fine. The notebook was nearly full anyway, its pages filled with notes and diagrams. He flipped through the pages slowly, reading words he had already memorized, taking in the ink and and imagining his father’s voice reading the words to him. It had been thirteen years since Remus had last heard his father, and every day it was becoming harder to remember what he sounded like.

Time passed faster than he expected, and soon someone was calling lights out. As people rushed to their beds, Remus hastily locked the journal back in his trunk before laying back in his sheets.

Remus had forgotten what it felt like to lie down in a bed, and while it was a terrible mattress and the bunk above his head sank dangerously low, it was a thousand times better than what he usually slept on. He relished the feeling of both support and give from the mattress beneath him, and the pillow beneath his head felt almost criminally soft.

Remus let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he closed his eyes. He tried to remind himself that he was going to be going to the front soon, that even this wasn’t going to be permanent, but tonight, he didn’t care. Tonight, he wanted to pretend he was just like anybody else with a home and a warm bed. He wasn’t going to have opportunities like this for much longer.

 


	2. In Which Remus Is Bad At (Not) Making Friends And (Not) Following Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus finds training camp is difficult enough without trying to avoid people who insist on being his friends, but as with everything else in his life, things tend to turn out the opposite of what he intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this chapter is related to the Harry Potter universe (there is one original character, but they still have a connection to canon characters), so have fun guessing where I got them from!

There was something about having people talk about you as if you weren’t there to hear them, Remus thought as he watched his father’s supervisors talk amongst themselves. People said things they’d normally never dream of telling you if they thought you might not be listening.

“He’s too young to go right now; he’d have to wait a few years before the Academy would take him. No one has ever entered the Academy before the age of fifteen.”

Remus swung his legs back and forth in his chair, his toes scraping the carpeted floor beneath him. Everything in the room was covered in ugly tapestries, from the walls to the upholstery. The chairs were exceedingly uncomfortable, but then, why would a funeral home care about having comfortable chairs?

“He’s Lupin’s boy; surely they’d make an exception?”

“They might cover tuition when he arrives, but they won’t care for him for the five years before that.”

“I’m right here,” Remus grumbled, crossing his arms, but they didn’t hear him. He glared at the oldest man, who idly scratched at his large mustache.

“Surely Lupin’s pension will cover costs.”

“Hope may look fine, but if I’m honest, no one’s sure if she’ll last the year.”

“I can hear you,” Remus said louder. The younger man merely adjusted his cuffs.

“No other relatives?”

“Lovell and Hope came from very small and estranged families. Even if we found someone to sponsor the boy, I doubt they’d actually do it.”

“Then let’s see if Hope can stay alive long enough to keep him out of the orphanage. We’ll arrange his practice exams at around 13, so he’ll be ready for his entrance exams the next year -”

“I’m not going to the Academy!” Remus shouted, and the two men finally stopped, looking at Remus in surprise.

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” the younger man scoffed, adjusting his cuffs again. “Of course you’re going. Your father worked for us, and the military is very powerful. Do you think we wouldn’t take care of his son? Provide him an education?”

“You just said I was going to an orphanage!” Remus cried out. “How is that taking care of me?”

“Only if your mother dies,” the younger man said kindly, bending over to look Remus in the eye. Remus got the incredible urge to punch him in the face.

“I’m not going to the Academy,” Remus repeated.

The older man frowned, his white mustache wiggling. “You are going, young man,” he said sternly. “You are far too young and distraught to know what you’re saying, so we shall make the decision for you. Now - ”

The three of them jumped as a vase on a nearby table suddenly shattered into pieces. The two men stared at it before turning to Remus, who was holding onto the seat of his chair with white knuckles, his face ashen.

“I am not going to go to the Academy,” Remus said again, looking at them with wide eyes. “I know what my father did for you. I don’t want to be part of it.”

“But, my boy,” the younger man spluttered, “the military has done so much for your family, and your father - ”

“Is dead because of his research for the military,” Remus finished. “I’m not him. I’m not going to the Academy and I’m not joining the military, and there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind.”

 

\---

 

Remus was training to fight in a war and he didn’t know why.

That wasn’t entirely true. Remus had many reasons for having enlisted: the Caelian Army promised him clothes, a bed, nutritious food, and a stipend for his service. There was also talk of a pension fund, but Remus didn’t want to get ahead of himself. No one on the front knew if they’d ever make it through the night, let alone the war. Nevertheless, the idea of a pension fund waiting for him at the end of it all was one of the few things that got Remus up in the morning.

Prison, Remus knew, wouldn’t have offered the same kinds of perks. Sure, he would have been fed there too, but he had heard the stories: prisoners forced to work long hours for no pay in terrible conditions with abusive guards, no heat in the winter, and the same flavorless gruel meal after meal. He would have been crammed into a cell with four other men, where they would all have to relieve themselves in the same bucket and somehow make one candle last two weeks. Assuming he survived the ten years he would have been sentenced - a ludicrous amount of time for the supposed crime he’d committed - it would have been nigh impossible to get a decent job after being released. He was far more likely to be hired as a veteran than as a convict.

He had hesitated, but in the end, Remus had chosen the army. While it was true that he could die in the trenches, the war was also unlikely to last ten years. With any luck, it’d end before he even reached the front, and his punishment would only last weeks.

Ideologically, Remus had no stake in the matter, irrespective the lies he had told when filling out his paperwork. He had no family or friends to protect, and he imagined there were dogs with a stronger sense of nationalism than him.

The cause of the war was debatable, and very few people could agree on what exactly had happened to spark the flame in the first place. It made for great dinner conversation, but gave Remus the sneaking suspicion that people were shooting at each other for no good reason.

“You reckon they found that missing duke or whatever yet?” Dearborn asked their third night, dipping a piece of bread into his bowl.

It seemed that no matter what he did, Remus would find himself almost always surrounded by Prewett, Dearborn, and Longbottom at dinner, even after purposely sitting at a different table to throw them off. It wasn’t difficult to remain focused on his meal, however; dinner that evening was a beef stew that warmed Remus up after a chilly day outside and validated his decision to join the army for the food. If this kept this up, he might consider signing up for the war one of the best decisions he had ever made in his life. He’d get used to the exercises, right?

“First of all, it was the prince,” Prewett corrected Dearborn, “and secondly, he’s dead already. Why d’you think we’re fighting?”

“I’m pretty sure that whoever he is, he’s not dead.” Dearborn frowned. “Unless the papers said something new this week?”

“He’s been dead since the beginning,” said Prewett, his mouth full of bread. “That’s what Gideon said. I don’t know why you think he went missing.”

“Okay, I’d know if the prince died. I’m not that out of the loop.”

“You sure about that, grandpa? I thought you spent your days talking to fish.”

“Who are you calling - ?! Why am I even listening to you; do you even know how to read?”

“Hey!”

“That was only a diversion,” Longbottom cut in, shaking his head. “The Terramians want us to focus on the royal family so they can invade while we’re distracted.”

“Distracted? They can’t go around murdering our princes!”

“Shut up, Prewett, the prince isn’t dead.”

Remus rolled his eyes.

“So, you were saying?” Dearborn said politely, turning back towards Longbottom.

“Terram is trying to extend their borders to the Nelbedon mountains in the east,” Longbottom explained. “That’s why the fighting’s been going on so long there. That’s where they attacked first.”

“Then why attack the north?” Dearborn tapped his spoon against his bowl. “That doesn’t add up.”

Longbottom shrugged. “I never understood that part. Maybe they’re just going for one big land grab?”

“But then what about the prince?” Prewett asked.

“He’s not dead, geez, how thick are you?”

“You know, I remember my grandmother talking about a royal funeral last year,” Longbottom mused.

“Then who the hell is missing?” Dearborn exclaimed. “Because I know someone is missing. I know this for a fact.”

“I think I heard something about Terram’s ambassador, but I’m not sure,” Longbottom said with a frown. “Maybe he’s the one missing?”

Remus could tell that they had no idea what had spurred the war and tuned out. He didn't know what had caused the war either, but then again, he had been far removed from such things for some time.

Remus’s world was completely separate from glittering jewels and aristocratic titles. His world was defined by what it was missing rather than what it had. He had no family, no money, and nowhere permanent to stay or work; something always happened, he would be fired or evicted, and he would have to start all over again. Everything he owned fit in the rucksack he had brought to camp, things that over the years he couldn't or wouldn't sell. It was just as well he didn’t own much, as in training camp, he barely used the things he already had. Every day, Remus jerked awake before sunrise and passed out the instant his head touched the pillow.

The 1,600 recruits greeted the darkness with a trumpet tooting Reveille, magically enhanced to be loud enough to be heard in every building in the camp. After tidying up and a cup of coffee came an hour and a half of fitness that made Remus throw up the first day he had to endure it. His group’s exercises were usually run by Drill Sergeant Argus Filch, a humorless, skeletal man with a face that looked like it slowly was melting off him with age. If he wasn’t yelling he was wheezing, and his eyes shone with pleasure when he punished recruits. An unkempt cat called Mrs. Norris joined them on days it wasn’t raining, silently prowling through their ranks and watching with luminous yellow eyes. Whenever she caught someone doing something they shouldn’t, she’d yowl something terrible and pounce on the recruit, digging her claws into whatever she could reach.

These exercises were to be done in silence, but every now and then Prewett, Longbottom, or Dearborn would line up beside Remus and whisper when Filch shuffled out of earshot.

“I bet I can do more jumping jacks than you,” Prewett would claim boldly.

“I bet you can,” Remus would reply.

“I bet I can do more leg lifts.”

“We do them at the same time. Filch counts them.”

“I bet I can do more squats.”

“Does it matter?”

“I bet - ”

Longbottom was much less annoying. He would spend his time complaining about Filch, and while Remus would never admit it to himself, he found the morning exercises less terrible when Longbottom was at his side. Remus rarely replied to Longbottom’s remarks, but every now and then a smirk escaped and encouraged Longbottom further.

“When d’you reckon was the last time Filch even did a crunch?” Longbottom said the day Filch forced them to do 50 extra crunches because one of the recruits lined up with an untied boot. “Must’ve been ages ago; he might snap in half if he tried one now.”

“Do you think he ever smiles?” he said another morning after Filch told them they were performing like sacks of shit and threatened to have their meals replaced by such. “It looks like he hasn’t smiled in decades.”

The third time Filch refused to release them for breakfast on time, Longbottom was particularly annoyed. “Who pissed in his coffee? Honestly, someone should, and if I knew how to get to his brew in the morning I might do it myself.”

Dearborn seemed unable to decide whether or not he liked Remus, and so oscillated between being rudely encouraging and just being rude. The fact that it somehow motivated Remus to do better out of spite was just a side-effect.

“You realize I have little cousins who have better form than you,” Dearborn would jeer as they’d do their push-ups. “And they haven’t even gone through puberty yet.”

“Good for them,” Remus would say through gritted teeth.

“Oh come on, City Boy, I know you can do better than that.”

“Are you trying to steal Filch’s job or something?”

“Shut up, you missed a count.”

If they were ever caught (which they sometimes were, as Filch’s bulging eyes saw nearly everything his ears or Mrs. Norris missed), Filch would force them to run two miles before releasing them for breakfast, leaving Remus gagging as he struggled to keep his coffee down and stumbling his way to the mess hall. Sometimes the trio of recruits would sit with Remus at breakfast, and sometimes they wouldn’t; Remus, who was never truly awake until near noon, would prefer it when they left him alone, as their morning conversations never failed to give him a headache.

Breakfast was followed by three hours of mind-numbingly repetitive drills, where they succeeded only when they all moved as one. It was easy to jumble the commands up, especially when Filch screamed them in your face, and it wasn’t uncommon for Remus to mix up a turn, an incline, and a wheel. It took him nearly a week of practicing before lights out to get it right. Every time a recruit was caught making a mistake, the individual would have to do 50 push-ups at the end of exercises. These mistakes were cumulative, and one poor blond pudgy fellow frequently racked up at least 100 push ups a day and always ended up missing most of lunch. No one dared to speak during drill exercises, too tense and focused to spare a thought for anything other than reacting as quickly and precisely as possible. Remus always felt as tight as a knot after their morning drills, and within a few days it felt like his back and shoulders were made of stone.

Lunch was a welcome break and lasted half an hour longer than breakfast. Prewett nearly always brought the trio to sit by Remus, no matter how often Remus moved tables to avoid them, so eventually Remus stopped trying. For the first three weeks, Remus rushed through his meal in order to take a quick and very necessary nap, worn out by all the physical activity. By week four, however, his condition had improved to the point that he no longer needed them. Instead, he would alternate between quietly listening to the trio’s conversations around him, most of which consisted of complaining about Filch, and resting in the barracks, leafing through his father’s journal. Their commentary about Filch wasn’t off the mark, and once or twice Remus nearly interjected his own rude observations into the discussion. He quickly shoved food into his mouth at those moments, unwilling to include himself in their talk. If he started joking with them, they might think he wanted to talk to them about other things as well, and then what would he do? They’d never leave him alone, and it’d be his own fault for butting in in the first place. Remus resolutely ignored the unfortunate swooping feeling in his stomach whenever they chose to sit away from him during lunch; after all, it was what he wanted, right?

Still, despite Remus’s determination to snub the others, there was some good in knowing that they felt the same way about their morning schedule. Remus wasn’t the least able of the recruits, but it was clear that he hadn’t arrived as physically fit as many of the others. It wasn’t his fault - orphanages weren’t known for providing well-balanced meals to the children in their care, and his shaky financial situation as an adult didn’t always allow for regular meals - but knowing that even a farm boy like Prewett or a sailor like Dearborn could have trouble keeping up made him feel less weak.

After lunch came training, which focused more on teaching skills than conditioning their bodies. All these skills were taught by Drill Sergeant Irma Pince, a reedy woman with a shrivelled, paper-like skin and a permanently disdainful expression. She, unlike Filch, didn’t take pleasure in disciplining recruits; in fact, it was quite possible that she didn’t take pleasure in anything, except maybe rulebooks or well-completed paperwork. This didn’t keep her from being very good at dealing out punishment, and seeing as she rarely got the perfection she wanted from the recruits, she dealt it often.

Remus was not a fan of the purely physical lessons. They were grueling and made Remus question what he had gotten himself into. Once a week they spent the afternoon digging trenches, also known as sapping. It was then they learned techniques on how to dig deeply and quickly, as well as how to install wooden floorboards called duckboards and the wooden walls they called revetments designed to keep the walls from collapsing. Pince insisted they learn how to do so quickly and in all kinds of weather, so the autumn storms never saved them from an afternoon of work. On those days, their work was made infinitely harder by the shifting soil and left everyone up to their eyebrows in mud. To top it all off, once they had completed their trenches, most of which had to be at least 6 feet deep, they had to take apart all the duckboards and revetments and fill the holes back up again. It was grueling work done in near silence, with Prince supervising and throwing rocks at recruits who dared say a word. She had a surprisingly good arm, and always hit them in the square in the helmet, knocking them over. “I hope whatever you just said was worth getting shot in the head,” she’d snap as the recruit scrambled back up, ears ringing.

Obstacle course days were tiring, but they weren’t nearly as bad as sapping. Prewett loved to race everyone he could and kept a running tally in his mind of his results, which he updated everyone on at the end of each session. He of course challenged Remus as often as possible. Normally, Remus only tried just hard enough to get through the obstacle course and lost frequently against Prewett. One day, however, Remus decided to take the race seriously, and to everyone’s surprise, he actually managed to beat him.

“No,” gaped Prewett, thunderstruck as he stared at Remus. He swayed in place, exhausted and in shock. “No way.”

Remus didn’t have anything to say for himself; he was even more bewildered than Prewett. He just hunched over, hands on his knees, and waited to catch his breath.

“What was that about being the fastest climber?” Longbottom teased Prewett, nudging him with an elbow. “The higher jumper? The quicker crawler? What was that again?”

Prewett scowled. “I want a rematch!”

Dearborn laughed. “You can barely stand up, and you want to do this obstacle course _again_?”

“Poor Prewett’s a poor loser,” Longbottom said solemnly. “Gideon would be disappointed in you.”

Prewett’s ears turned bright pink. “He would not! I’ll beat you next time!” Prewett jabbed a finger at Remus, who started. “You’ll see!”

Dearborn slapped Remus on the back, nearly toppling him. “I might have to try my luck against you next time,” he said, and Remus swallowed. Could he beat Dearborn? Should he even bother trying?

He ended up trying. He never won, but he did try. He told himself it was good conditioning; after all, who knew what he’d come up against in the trenches?

They spent multiple afternoons learning about their rifles and other types of weaponry. They learned to field-strip their rifles, which Prewett predictably turned into another race he consistently lost. After they were proficient at dissembling and reassembling their rifles, they learned maintenance and basic repairs, and soon after that they were on the firing range. Remus discovered this was the only exercise he was any good at, and surprised everyone by being one of the best shots in camp. His newfound talent made him quite popular for a brief period, and other recruits - particularly the ones with terrible aim - would pester him for tips on how to improve.

One night on the way to dinner, a lanky recruit a shade younger than him cornered him halfway to the mess, begging for help. Remus tried to ignore him, but the young man stepped in front of him and pulled out a flask.

“Help me and I’ll make it worth your trouble,” the young man promised, wiggling the flask. Liquid swirled inside it.

“We’re not supposed to have any alcohol at camp,” said Remus, eyeing the flask as if it were a grenade. “If anything, that’ll just cause me more trouble.”

“Come on, tell me, how do you calculate for the recoil?” the recruit pleaded.

“Leave me alone.” Remus attempted to push past the young man, but the young man was stronger than his thin frame looked.

“I feel like, maybe if I can aim keeping the recoil in mind, maybe I can - Wait a minute, I know you!”

Remus stepped back, confused. “What?”

“Yeah!” the young man continued earnestly. “You’re from Aurumuros, right? I remember you from the raid.”

Ah, the raid outside the homeless shelter - or rather, what had been the homeless shelter before it became illegal to be homeless. Once a week, the shelter had set up a free dinner outside for the homeless who didn’t choose to stay the night. Remus had been headed to said dinner when…

“You were the one who ran into me,” Remus said, eyes widening. “Who told me to run.”

“I guess you didn’t get away from them, either,” the young man said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Unless you actually volunteered for this?”

“No.” Remus shook his head. “They caught me.”

The city police had rounded up a huge number of homeless people during the raid, all of whom were put to trial. No one had understood what was going on until they stepped into the courtroom and discovered that Dolores Umbridge, a powerful member of Parliament, had succeeded in declaring homelessness a crime the day before the raid. The punishment for being homeless was ten years in prison unless the “criminal” in question volunteered to join the Caelian Military, in which case the punishment would be waived due to “exceptional moral character”. Remus, like every other eligible person they had caught, had chosen the military.

“Well,” the young man sighed. “At least we get fed every day, right? Now, about that recoil - ”

A terrible yowl cut into the night. Both men jumped.

“Mrs. Norris!” The young man groaned. “Here, have this.” He shoved the flask into Remus’s hands. “It’s on me.”

The other recruit disappeared before Remus knew what was happening, leaving him alone with contraband and the shadow of a ruthless cat. Remus knew that logically Mrs. Norris wouldn’t know what a flask was, never mind that alcohol was prohibited at the camp, but he stuffed it into a pocket anyway, looking around in a panic. Wherever Mrs. Norris was, Filch was rarely far behind…

“What’s going on here?”

Remus whirled around, expecting Filch and instead facing the young woman who had approved their paperwork upon arrival. She worked as part of the camp’s staff, but as general rule, she hadn’t interacted with the recruits since their first day. She was dressed in a version of his uniform with a skirt rather than trousers, arms crossed, a finger tapping her bicep.

“I - uh - “ His eyes flew from Mrs. Norris to the young woman to the empty space around them, wondering when Filch was going to pop out.

She looked down and kicked some dirt at Mrs. Norris. “Get out of here. I’ve got it.”

Mrs. Norris hissed, baring her teeth, but slunk away, casting suspicious glances at them as she did.

“You’ll need a better hiding place than your uniform if you want to keep that flask,” the young woman said once they were alone.

Remus gaped at her. “You’re not going to tell Filch?”

“Why should I?” She shrugged and nodded in the direction of the mess. “We’re late to dinner, so hide it on your person for now, but find a better place for it when you get back to your bunk. Come on.”

They walked in silence for a time, Remus’s mind whirling. She had caught him with contraband but wasn’t going to report him. Why? Should he thank her? Probably.

“Um, thank you, Ms., ah - “

“Specialist Vaidya,” she corrected firmly. “Or ma’am, of course.”

“Yes, er, ma’am. Thank you.”

“What were you two doing there, anyway?” Vaidya asked.

“He wanted me to help him with his aim,” Remus said. It sounded like a lie, even to his own ears. “With a rifle, I mean.”

“You’re Private Lupin, right?” Vaidya looked at him curiously.

“Yes...ma’am,” he added quickly as she raised her eyebrows.

“You’re one of the best crack shots here,” she said. “The entire staff’s heard of you. Are you thinking of becoming a sniper?”

The thought had never crossed Remus’s mind. “No, I don’t think I’d be very good at that… ma’am.”

“I’d disagree, but.” Vaidya shrugged. “At least this camp heads to Peftast. It’s not as hectic there, or so I’ve heard.”

“Have you been to the front before?” Remus asked.

“I’m a specialist, not a corporal.” A funny little smile crossed her lips. “In my case, an administrative specialist. And female. They’re not going to put me in the infantry.”

“There are women in the front, though, aren’t there?” He was sure he had seen promotional pictures of women there, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing any at training camp. Specialist Mary Macdonald had been in the recruitment office...had they not let her go, either?

“There are,” Vaidya said, “but not nearly in the same numbers. And most are specialized: medics, witches, snipers.”

“I see,” Remus said, unsure of what else to say.

It looked like Vaidya wanted to say more, but instead she sighed as they approached the mess hall. “Staff uses a different entrance. Hide that flask, or Mrs. Norris is going to find it later. If you can, rub some citrus on it; she hates that smell.”

Remus nodded, taking note of her suggestions, and they separated. He sat away from the trio during dinner and snuck his orange slices back to his bunk. Just as Vaidya had said, Mrs. Norris avoided his bunk for the rest of his time at camp.

Generally, dinner passed by much like lunch: if Remus arrived first, Prewett would lead the others to his table. If Remus arrived after the trio, he would sit with strangers. Either way, he would keep his head down and mouth shut. After dinner was an hour and a half of free time before lights out, often spent shining boots and cleaning kits. The next morning, the cycle started all over again. Few things changed from day to day. It was far more tedious than his life before camp, when everyday was difficult in its own unique way, and Remus found that the novelty of having entire days planned out for you wore off quickly.

However, their first six weeks passed by quickly, and soon the mealtime conversations shifted from complaining about their days to fretting about their upcoming exit examination.

“Do you think they’ll make us write an essay?” Prewett asked over dinner one night, pale and his food untouched. “I’m rubbish at book-learning. I hated school back home. Gideon’s the smart one, not me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Longbottom. “It’d be pointless, seeing as we won’t be writing much of anything in the trenches, save letters back home.”

“Frank’s right, they’ll likely just have us do an obstacle course and some drills and then shoot at things,” said Dearborn, digging into his stew. “You’ll be fine.”

“I wonder why Gid didn’t tell me what they did at their camp,” Prewett said worriedly, turning to Dearborn beside him before looking across the table at Longbottom. “Maybe he knew I’d fail.”

“They probably cut it out his letters, if he wrote about it at all,” Longbottom said. “Can’t have military secrets floating around in interceptable mail.”

“I guess.” Prewett looked forlornly down at his bowl. Remus wondered if it would be rude to offer to eat the portion for him.

“So, Longbottom, how much you wanna bet Lupin will get the highest score in shooting?” Dearborn said.

Longbottom glanced at Remus beside him. Remus scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

Longbottom hummed thoughtfully, tapping his spoon against the corner of his lips. “I’d say top ten for sure, but I’m not sure about number one.”

“I’ll bet you pack of cigarettes.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I, but you can trade a lot for a pack of cigarettes.”

Longbottom considered this. “Deal.”

Dearborn stuck his hand out, and Longbottom shook it from across the table. “You’re gonna have to do me proud, Lupin,” Dearborn grinned. He tore his bread in half and waggled his eyebrows at Remus, who returned the look with a polite stare.

“I’m just concerned about passing,” Remus said, picking up his cup of water. “I’m not aiming for top marks in anything.”

“Aw, c’mon, Lupin, I’ll give you some of my loot if we win.”

Since when were they a team? To Remus’s displeasure, he was touched he was being included, but annoyance overwhelmed his warm feelings quickly. Few things rankled him like people talking about him as if he wasn’t there; his palms still itched with the urge to punch the two men from his father’s funeral thirteen years before. “I guess we’re just going to have to see how the others do,” Remus replied coolly. “I’m not the only variable.”

“Ah, we’ll win,” Dearborn said confidently. “Better start saving, Longbottom, as packs cost a pretty penny.”

“Hey,” Prewett said suddenly, frowning. “How come no one’s betting on me?”

“That’s because you’re just going to be sick all over your rifle and fail everything,” Dearborn teased, messing with Prewett’s hair.

“Gah, gerroff!” Prewett cried.

It didn’t take long for news of Dearborn and Longbottom’s bet to spread across camp, and soon betting pools were organized. Remus’s competition emerged as a reedy, straw-haired fellow named Stuart Craggy, and an extremely short and burly redhead named Tarquin McTavish. Craggy had been formally taught to shoot, whereas McTavish seemed to have learned through less conventional means. Despite Remus’s lack of training, however, over a third of the camp was betting on him to come out on top.

To Remus’s relief, neither Craggy nor McTavish slept in the same cabin as him, but McTavish seemed to go out of his way to try and intimidate him and Craggy whenever possible. Craggy, for his part, seemed to go along with everything with a light-hearted air. He never said anything impolite to Remus, instead looking at him as if he were something nasty on the bottom of his boot.

Dearborn and Longbottom, feeling properly ashamed of themselves for bringing this upon Remus, took to sticking close to him whenever they could. Prewett, while he had nothing to do with the bets, joined them anyway. Remus didn’t actually need their protection - his time in the orphanage and in the streets had given him a thick skin - but he had to admit, there was something about seeing Dearborn, a 6’3” sailor, tower threateningly over the 5’2” McTavish after the latter “accidentally” nearly smacked Remus in the crotch with the butt of a rifle. It was also oddly satisfying, Remus discovered, having someone there to appreciate it when he devised his payback, which in one case involved sneaking a massive beetle into McTavish’s canteen. McTavish didn’t notice until the bug was already in his mouth, and the shriek he let out made Longbottom nearly wet himself and Prewett fall over in laughter. Dearborn retold the story at every opportunity.

Nevertheless, however entertaining retaliation could be, the fact remained that there was still a final exam coming up, and failing was not an option. In the time leading up to their last day, they were worked harder than ever, with shorter breaks and harsher punishments for mistakes. The tension caused three times as many errors than usual, and more people than ever were begging Remus for tips on how to improve their rapidly deteriorating aim, including Prewett, who was so stressed he could barely sleep.

Few could stomach their final dinner before the exam, and the mess was considerably quieter than usual. Trepidation tensed shoulders and clenched jaws. It was their second to last night at camp, and questions abounded: What they eat out in the front? Would they all go to the same place, or would they be split up? What would it be like out there in the trenches? Did your exam results dictate where you went? What were they for? What happened if you failed?

Remus’s walk back to his bunk from the mess that night was near silent. It was cold and still, the air sharp and smelling of pine trees; a fog was rolling in. The only consistent sound came from his feet crunching against the gravel. For the first time, Remus wished he had been assigned to the same bunk as Dearborn and Prewett, or Longbottom; with them, at least, he would have been distracted by their chatter. Instead, he watched his shadow as he walked, appearing and disappearing as he walked in and out of the few lamps that lit his way.

Sleep refused to come for Remus. He whittled away the dark hours listening to everyone else fail to sleep, determined to keep his mind off of the exam, off of the front, and off of his memories. He failed this test frequently. When the trumpet sounded across the camp the next morning, Remus wasn’t sure if he had slept at all.

The exam lasted hours. It featured everything they had gone over: calisthenics, drills, weapon construction, sapping, installing duckboards and revetments, and more. Breakfast and lunch were quick affairs lasting only 30 minutes before they were thrown back outside. Mercifully, it did not rain; Remus could only imagine how much more exhausting everything would have been if they had been forced to do it in the mud.

The last task scheduled for Remus was rifle shooting. The exam had drained all his energy, and he was convinced he’d miss every shot. Great, now Dearborn was going to hate him, he thought gloomily. Appalled he even cared, Remus hastily told himself he was only seeking to maintain allies. Yes, allies in the trenches would help him live longer, right? That’s all this was about.

As soon as Remus stepped onto the shooting range, the world around him burst into excited buzzing, and an unexpected shot of adrenaline spiked up his spine. Heart racing, he stepped to the outskirts of the crowd awaiting orders to line up. Specialist Vaidya came up to him, holding a clipboard against her.

“You’ll be the second to last in queue three,” she told him, and Remus nodded. She gave him a small smile. “You ready?”

Remus wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers as he watched Dearborn and the other first people in the queues take aim at a crouch. “Ah, guess as ready as I’ll ever be? I’m mostly worried about how I did with grenade throwing; I missed my target three times. Um, ma’am.”

“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, checking her clipboard.

“And Prewett, he completely mucked up his revetments,” Remus continued, mouth running without his permission. He squeezed his hands into brief fists. Shots rang out. “There’s no way Pince is going to give him passing marks on that.”

“He passed,” Vaidya responded off-handedly, flipping through a page.

Remus frowned as the recruits knelt and took aim once more. His heart was going so fast it felt like his chest was on fire. “How do you know?”

Vaidya stopped looking through her clipboard and sighed. “Because everyone passes.”

Remus turned away from the recruits laying down to look at her, everything around him suddenly stilling. “What do you mean, ‘everyone passes’?”

Vaidya faced him unflinchingly. “Everyone, regardless of whether or not they fail any or all of the tasks, is going to pass and be sent to the front. The final exam is just a formality.”

Another series of shots rang out, echoing against the buildings and trees. Remus recalled Prewett’s pale face and shaking hands that morning, terrified of failing and determined to meet his brother in the front. And Prewett hadn’t been the only one stressed by the exam - all of them, to some degree, were worried about what might happen if they couldn’t pass. Failing the final exam was unheard of - and now, Remus knew why.

“But then...” Remus struggled to choose which question to ask first. ”What - why - ”

“Queue up, Lupin,” Vaidya interrupted him, turning on her heel to leave. “Show us what you can do.”

Hot anger coiled up in Remus as he took his place in the queue and waited his turn. They had been pushed for two weeks to prepare for this exam, all the while being told failure was not an option. Their results were extremely important, the staff had said, and would determine their lot in the war, though the specifics had never been expanded on. How much of that had been true? Did the results matter at all? Or was this just some sick way of motivating them to work harder? What was the point of trying, if none it meant anything? How many of these skills would they even need at the front?

By the time it was Remus’s turn, he was so furious he didn’t even notice the hush that fell over everyone when he picked up his gun. As he took aim, he remembered the bet, and how much importance people had placed on something so meaningless. What did he care if he was the best shot at camp, and if people won money or cigarettes or booze off of his ability to shoot a target? He never volunteered to compete for their amusement. His results here didn’t mean anything in the front, either; shooting a painted target was not the same as shooting a moving person. What if he didn’t want to shoot anyone? Even if he had the best aim in the entire army, which he knew he didn’t, they couldn’t make him shoot, could they? What would they do if he refused, shoot him?

 _Well fuck you,_ he thought as he glared at the target. _I’m not here to be your perfect wind-up soldier. I’m here to stay out of prison and to eat, and that’s only because this stupid country refuses to give me a fucking break. Longbottom can win those cigarettes, for all I care._

Remus fired three rapid shots in the required positions, paying little attention to where he was aiming on the target. He had finished before anyone else had even reached their second shot, and turned as he stood, ignoring his results. At least, until he saw Vaidya’s wide eyes at the end of the queues. He shifted his gaze, and saw Dearborn’s jaw on the floor. Then he noticed everyone else had the same look on their face.

Curiosity got the best of him, and Remus looked, wondering how terribly he had done. It didn’t really matter, as he was going to pass even if he hadn’t hit the target once. Well, if Dearborn was mad that he had lost a pack of cigarettes, he shouldn’t have made the bet -

A strange cold feeling pooled at the bottom of his stomach as he saw one hole at the center of the target, its edges bubbling out in an imperfect circle.

Three bullseyes. No one in their cohort had ever achieved those results in practice.

A hand clapped Remus’s right shoulder, followed by another on his left; soon, a small crowd of people was congratulating Remus, clearly grateful for what he had just won them. Caradoc, grinning from ear to ear, wrapped an arm around Remus’s shoulders and pulled him out of there, promising Remus fifty percent of his earnings for that spectacular performance.

Remus supposed he should be rather proud of himself; he’d passed that test with flying colors, and earned half a pack of cigarettes from Frank, maybe even more. But all he could think about was how, even when he deliberately tried to do the opposite of what was expected of him, he still ended up doing what other people wanted.

  



End file.
